


The Librarian's Debt

by rillalicious



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Vampires
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-06-20
Updated: 2011-07-21
Packaged: 2017-10-20 14:27:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/213736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rillalicious/pseuds/rillalicious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While researching an exhausting and emotional case, Hermione finds herself at an infamous underground library. The librarian is someone she wasn't expecting to see.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to Ellen Smithee for the beta. Thank you so much for reading and reviewing!

Night sweeps in like an eddy these days, tumbling down alleys and over rooftops, spilling darkness into the spaces in between concrete and wood, swallowing the grey-coated sky with mournful silence. His profession demands these noctivagous treks, and he hastens into the night in a flurry of dark robes snapping at his ankles. Their questions are always the same, their requests always shallow and fleeting. Just once, he wants one of them to ask for that one secret he has been entrusted to guard most dearly.

He entertains this thought nightly as he stands in the nondescript alley, listening to the postulants plead their cases.

And then, tonight, there is the face that he recognizes, and within the space of seconds, everything has changed.

"Are you the librarian?" she asks, and by the voice he is sure that it is her. He has been, until this moment, standing here cloaked in the inky darkness that escapes the streetlight, watching her with equal parts curiosity and resignation.

"I am." It is the first time he has spoken since she appeared to make her request.

"I know that voice."

 _Of course._ Why had he expected anything else from this one?

"You are mistaken."

"No," she says, and she steps closer, to the edge of the pool of light casting orange glow on the pavement. "I'm quite certain I am not."

"Always so certain," he says, betraying his identity with bitter drawl, the words poison honey sliding from his lips. "Always so naively certain."

"It _is_ you." And there is triumph in her voice this time. Another mystery puzzled out, as if anyone would be surprised.

"You are wasting my time. You've come to speak to the librarian, not a former professor. Do you have a request, or do you not?"

"I do," she says. "But... I have so many questions."

"Your time is up," he says. His snarl is well-practiced, a sound trained to send the inquisitive and sinister alike running for cover.

"Do you think I'm afraid of you?" she asks, so boldly that if he were to answer in the affirmative, he would only look a fool.

"Clearly you are not." A small muscle above his lip twitches. "Though perhaps you would be wise to fear me."

"What good does it do to fear the dead?" she says.

He steps fully into the light, grim smile illuminated. "What good, indeed."

She swallows, eyes widening in something just a shade less defined than fear. "You're not dead."

"Grand observation."

"How is that possible? There was a body, a burial."

"A rather well attended burial, much to my surprise. I hadn't known I'd that many fans."

"Harry spoke very well of you after your death--er, _not_ -death. People listened."

"Of course they did," he says, his words leaving a bitter flavor on the air between them. "Why wouldn't they listen to Potter?"

She raises her hand in the air then, spreading her fingers as if pressing them to glass, as if this wall that separates his existence from her own is palpable and confining.

"Touch me," she says.

"Pardon?"

"If you're real, I want to feel you."

Since the snake tore open his throat, he has not been able to swallow without a tweak of memory, a small, physical ache that knuckles its way down his esophagus and sits in his stomach like a stone. He has grown used to this phenomena, the undeniable permanence of its discomfort, but when he swallows now, in anticipation of human _touch_ , of contact with flesh and blood, that pebble in his throat feels like fire.

Her palm is warm, and damp from nerves or surprise or from clenching her hands in concentration. He touches her skin with two fingers at first, sliding them up the path of her lifeline, pausing at the soft pad below her fingers. She shivers.

"I assure you, Miss Granger, you are on dangerous ground here."

"I've been on dangerous ground before. I assure _you_ , Mr Snape, that I can handle myself." A flash of pink slides across her lips as she moistens them. "Your pulse is racing."

"Why are you here?"

"I've come for a book," she says.

"Of course." His palm slides flat against hers.

She presses back, her lips curling in a smirk to rival his own. "Of course."

He curls his fingertips over the sharp edges of her neatly trimmed nails, for only a moment, then whisks his hand away.

"Come quickly. Don't touch anything. Don't speak loudly," he says.

She follows so closely at his heels that his robes snap around her ankles and knees, the promise of more human contact if he only stops and _savors_ it taunting him with each step.

Once inside, he realizes she has stopped, and when he turns, she is standing just inside the doorway, eyes closed, inhaling. The scent, for him, has become indistinguishable from the scent of the night itself: the mixture of old leather, a touch of mildew, the slow and steady decay of tomes kept on dusty shelves for centuries. But she breathes it in as if it is life sustaining, and he sees in the tremor of her jaw, the flutter of her eyelids, that she would devour that scent if she could. And he understands.

The imprint of her palm on his beats against his pulse with the permanence of a tattoo. He thinks that it has been far too long since he has entertained meaningful human contact. He has gone as mad as they say he has amongst the stacks, here in perpetual darkness.

"Don't linger, then," he says, his own voice cutting through those meandering thoughts like a guillotine. How dare one young woman unnerve him so. "You're wasting my time. Come and make your request so I may be done with you."

She smiles now; it is a serene, enigmatic smile, not mocking him exactly, but seeing _through_ him. Making the imprint on his palm prickle and galvanize. Then her expression fades, her lips forming a soft, down-turned arc, and she nods, following him into the unsettling stillness of the library.

Once they have reached his desk--and he never brings them to his desk, but he knows this one, and wishes to avoid the inevitable beleaguering that will come if he tries to deny her--she produces a small card. On it, her recognizable script lists a title, beneath it, the author's name tentatively punctuated with a question mark. He narrows his eyes, then raises them to catch her gaze.

"Are you certain?"

She nods, confident. "Yes. That is what I need."

He takes her in for a long moment, allows her to believe that he will deny her inquiry, make her search elsewhere, though they both know the tome in question is only available at his hands. Now, he smirks.

"Finally, a challenging request," he says. "Very well. Return in three days and I will have procured it for you."

Her eyes widen; she was not expecting his complaisance. He feels a small light of pride inside his chest at the acknowledgment that he has not been forgotten by the world after all. Even if his legacy is one of churlishness, it is a legacy nonetheless.

"All right," she says finally. "Three days."

"Now be gone," he says.

"In a moment. But first, I need to know how--"

"I came to work for the undead?" he asks. He is weary, and ready to be rid of her (and also, _not_ ready, which is troublesome enough), but he remembers enough of her to know that she won't be put off when she has a question to ask.

"Yes." She tugs her bottom lip between her teeth, searching out the words. "Do you live here? In the vampire library? You're not one of them. You have a pulse. I was expecting..."

"A vampire," he finishes, after the pause. He prefers not to say it aloud. It sounds so ridiculous to his ears, the culmination of vicious student gossip come to life. Severus Snape, secret vampire. "You are correct. I am not one of them. I am, however... beholden to the night."

"You're cursed?"

"Nothing so simplistic. I owe a debt." It seems as though that statement could describe each leg of his existence, and at that thought, he finds himself wearier still. "That is all you need to know. I have indulged your nosiness for long enough, Miss Granger. Your next dismissal will not be as congenial as the last."

Her lips part, the shiny pink glistening of her tongue visible between her teeth, then she presses them closed as if holding in the spate of questions that threaten to overwhelm her common sense. At least she appears to know when she should stop talking, though he imagines to do so causes her physical discomfort.

"I apologize for my curiosity," she says. "Until next time, Professor."

He allows the epithet out of impatience or ambivalence or damnable sentimentality, and finds he barely has time to speak a "Goodbye, Miss Granger," before she is flitting from the library in a cloud of unruly dark curls and trailing robe.

He raises the card in his hand, the echo of the door opening and then closing again vibrating through the shelves as she flees him. Faint amusement curls his lips. To seek a book like this, she is, indeed, in very deep trouble.

 

~~~


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While researching an exhausting and emotional case, Hermione wants to find out exactly how Severus Snape came to work at the vampires' library. Severus has some questions of his own.

If those long ago days in the Forest of Dean dragged on like years, Snape's three day waiting period is an eternity. She has so many questions to ask him upon their next meeting that by mid-afternoon of the first day, her handwritten list covers over a foot of parchment. She stares at it, frowns, casts a charm to banish the ink from the page.

She has to be more concise. He won't give her time to inquire until her curiosity is sated. She tries linear organization of her questions: How did he survive the snake bite? Or the burial, for that matter? The casket was closed, but Harry had made certain there was a body in there. Has he spent all these years with the vampires? She wipes a hand across her forehead. It's too much, still too much.

A pounding on the study door rattles her, and she drops her quill to the page in frustration.

"What is it?" Her voice is cold and impatient; it resonates with the terrible anticipation that has been haunting her day and night since she arrived at this house.

"Are you progressing at _all_?" The words tumble into the study as the door swings open. Lavender Jordan-Brown squints into the dimness as she steps inside.

"The only progress we seem to be making here is that you're now interrupting me every ten minutes instead of every five," Hermione says, the words regrettable as soon as they are spoken.

"I'm so sorry to inconvenience you with my _dying_ son," Lavender says, and she inhales deeply. The shrill, predictable outburst is bubbling just below the surface.

"Your son is not the inconvenience here, Lavender. I have been working day and night to help you figure out what is going on. I've told you at least a thousand times that I need to concentrate if I'm going to get anything out of these books." Hermione waves her hand at the array of open tomes spread before her, the lie coming easily. She has each one nearly committed to memory by now; there is no cure to be found amongst them.

"He's my _son_. And I'm terrified for him. The least you can offer me is a little sympathy now and again."

"Did you hire me for sympathy, Lavender? Or did you hire me to find a _cure_? Because I can assure you that if it's the former, you've got the wrong woman."

"You know something?" says Lavender, the words punctuated by breathy tears. "I think there was a reason Ron walked out on you. A very good one." Her hair fans out in a flurry of long, loose curls as she turns away, storms from the room.

Hermione slumps into her chair; no matter how brief, every conversation with the woman is exhausting. She arrived here with thin-worn patience, and Lavender seems to want nothing more than to erode them further.

"She doesn't mean it," Lee says, standing in the doorway now. Long dreadlocks cover half his face, but she can see enough to know that he's trying to smile. "She hasn't slept in days."

"It's not her fault," Hermione says. She lifts her quill, drops it again when she sees the way it amplifies the trembling of her hand. "I shouldn't have spoken to her like that, given the situation."

"She honestly thinks he's not going to pull through," says Lee, and he's looking down now, his face disappearing entirely into the shadows. He wants her to contradict him, to give him some hope in this hopeless place. Hermione will do this for him, because he has never shown her anything but kindness.

"She's wrong," she says. "You know that, don't you?"

"Of course," says Lee, with just a hint of his old cockiness. "You know Lav. She'll be over it in an hour."

Hermione nods, glances at her list of questions, the ones she deemed more important than another fruitless search through all these books. She wonders if she's lost the capacity to feel guilt at all. Guilt won't help the child when he goes feverish and catatonic on the next full moon. Only Snape's book will help.

"I'll have the house-elf bring you a plate when dinner's ready," says Lee. "If you haven't changed your mind about joining us at the table."

She smiles just slightly then. "Somehow, I don't think Lavender would appreciate my presence."

Lee snorts. "Right, then. Smollett will bring it to you." He turns to leave, but hangs back, holding the door jamb as he looks over his shoulder at her. "And Hermione, thanks, mate. From me _and_ Lav. For everything. After all you've been through--"

"Lee--"

"Just... thanks."

And he is gone before she can protest further. Hermione raises her quill, presses the tip of it to her parchment and watches the ink spread tiny, spidery fingers outward from its point.

Two more days to wait.

~*~*~

By the morning of the third day, she can hardly contain anticipation. She is up at dawn, sipping coffee at the large kitchen island in Brown Manor, feeling dwarfed by the massive expanse of space here. She knows this mansion once housed Lavender's parents, but Lavender is an only child, and she wonders how necessary any of this could be for three humans and a handful of house-elves.

"This place is too big," Lee says, as he strolls inside. "Isn't it?"

Hermione inhales the warm, richly scented curls of steam, looks up at him with a small smile. "Am I that transparent in my thoughts?"

Lee chuckles without smiling. "Nah. It's what I think every damn time I walk into this kitchen. Jesus. I told Lav we don't need all this, but she's attached to the place and, well, I have a hard time telling her no."

"It all seems a bit... unnecessary, but if she loves it here, it's good of you to let her stay."

Lee takes the kitchen stool beside her. "I've never known what to do with any of this," he says. "How to say no to anybody. After the war, anyway. I mean, it started with George losing Fred; who's going to say no to George after something like that? He wanted to date Angelina and I.." Lee's staring off into the distance, and Hermione feels like she's listening to a story not meant for her at all. "I didn't have the heart to get in the way of that. Not that I'm complaining, mind, because then I met Lav, and... Me and Angie weren't meant to be, but Lavender." He nods, smiling now. Still looking far off, but smiling. "She's my girl."

"That's good, Lee," she says, even though she has no context for this reply; she doesn't know what it's like to feel that way about anyone. "That's good." She sips her coffee. "Tonight I'm going back to that library I told you about. They should have a new book for me by now. One that I think will finally help."

"Really?" says Lee, and suddenly he's back in the room with her, no longer drifting on those memories haunting the outskirts of the war.

"Yes." She reaches out and squeezes his wrist. "I'm counting on it."

~*~*~

Night falls, finally, finally. Snape is waiting for her when she steps into the alleyway; complete darkness has only just cast its full cloak over them. It was silly, she thinks, to assume he wouldn't surface early. He's not bound to the absence of sun like the vampires. Not to her knowledge, at least.

"Eager, are we?" he says, and she thinks he looks faintly amused.

"This information is important to me. I'm sure you're aware of that," she says.

"Mmm, yes," he says, and it is in what he does not say that her curiosity is piqued. His voice is as full of questions as her own.

She wonders, if only for a moment, if he has spent as much of the last three days trying to puzzle her out as she has spent wondering about him. The heat of embarrassment warms her cheeks. He's looking at her, standing so still that she isn't certain a passerby would even notice him there. A vampire trick, perhaps, or something he once learned as a Death Eater? No, they were never particularly stealthy. He might have learned it under Dumbledore's tutelage.

He takes a step back, holds out an arm, his robes snapping like firecrackers as he turns sharply to escort her inside.

The scent of the library hits her again and she closes her eyes. She feels at home here by scent alone. She could live in this place without want of anything, surrounded by endless shelves of books. She wonders if he feels the same. In all those years at Hogwarts, she'd never imagined him a librarian.

She supposes they were too busy imagining him to be a monster.

"I believe this is what you seek." His voice is low and thoughtful, the book in his outstretched hand bound in deep blue leather.

She draws herself back to full consciousness. Their moment is almost over and she has yet to ask a single question.

 _Thank you_ , she wants to say, but there's such finality in that small courtesy. It says "Our time here is over" or "I'll be going now" or "This was the important piece of our interaction." And somehow, even though a child's life may be saved by what she finds in those pages, she's not ready for this conversation to end.

"How long have you been here?" she asks. This is the question she'd decided upon at the end of the second day. Its answer will give her context, and history, and even if it is the only answer he provides, it is a starting point for stringing together the mystery.

His lips twitch, just as they did last time, the book still suspended between them, his long fingers supporting it as her own hand flattens across its cover, a dance of tentative touch and release.

"Since the day they brought me back," he says. He's watching her now, unwaveringly.

"Brought you back... from the Shrieking Shack?"

"From the dead."

She swallows, tries to swallow, and nearly chokes.

"You were dead," she says.

"Quite."

"Of course you were dead. Harry saw you die."

"And I daresay Mr Potter recognizes death when it stares him in the face. Which I did."

She chews her lower lip, watches his gaze stray to her teeth, and stops immediately, soothing the skin with her tongue. He must think her ridiculously squeamish.

"But they didn't turn you into a vampire," she says.

"No." He chuckles now and the sound is dark and humorless, clinging to her skin like a chill. "Contrary to my previous convictions, there are worse things than becoming a dark creature."

"I'm sorry." Her words are so inadequate, so trite and regrettable.

"I suppose you would be."

She takes the book, clutches it in her hands, opens to the table of contents.

"Is it Lupin's?" he asks, and the previous conversation dissolves into the air around them. Too soon, too soon.

"I'm sorry?"

"The child you're trying to save."

"How did you--"

He gestures to the book. _The Effects of Aggressive Lycanthropic Exposure on Offspring_.

"No," she says. "Remus Lupin's boy is hardly a child anymore. This child's parent was exposed through an attack. Fenrir Greyback."

"Ah. Weasley, then."

She allows herself a smirk now. "Wrong again."

His gaze turns suddenly intense and she can feel the weight of it on her shoulders, palpable and uncomfortable.

"Am I?" he says, the lightness in his tone contradicting his expression.

She decides the man is even more infuriating in his current state than he ever was as a professor. He is unreadable.

"Yes," she says. "The little boy belongs to Lavender Brown and Lee Jordan. They both attended Hogwarts whilst you taught there."

"I'm not an amnesiac, Miss Granger. I do remember those students. Jordan, in particular, had some rather colorful things to say about me on that dissident radio show of his."

" _Dissident_ radio show," she says. "So you didn't approve."

Snape raises one eyebrow and does not answer.

"Well," she says finally, when she cannot discern a way to halt the silent construction of this intangible wall between them, "I thank you for your assistance." She turns to leave, somewhat defeated.

He doesn't move, doesn't answer, and she forces her steps quick and even, watches the door come into view along the edge of the last tall stack. She expects, in all her logical calculations, for the next sound to be the clicking of the latch as she turns the door handle. Instead, it is a single word. The last word she ever imagined would come from his lips.

"Stay."

 

***


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione's research has taken her to an infamous underground library. She wants to find out exactly how Severus Snape came to work there, while he has questions of his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to Ellen Smithee for the beta. As always, thank you so much for reading and reviewing!

"Stay."

Hermione teeters for a moment, holding steady on tiptoe as she draws herself up, rolls her shoulders back. She lifts her chin and starts to turn around. She is not so taken in by the dark romanticism of this place that she cannot recognize danger, and the combination of a strong vampire presence and Severus Snape stokes a constant swelling of danger in her heart. Still, there is _need_ in his voice, and she will not leave.

"Why?" she asks, aware of the door ajar behind her, of the cool air outside the deliciously musty library.

"You have questions, don't you?" he says, curtly. Then adds, "I get precious little company in this place."

"This library's reputation is widespread. Surely you have other patrons."

"Idiots, mostly."

She presses her lips together to keep from smiling.

"I'll admit, I have questions as well," he says.

She reaches behind her, pushes the door closed. "I'll do my best to answer them."

"Come," he says, and he turns away, expectant that she'll follow.

He moves like a shadow, she thinks, like a dark rivulet of running water, tumbling its way down hill. Every footstep is fluid and certain, which becomes a more surprising feat once they pass the reference desk into the shadowed depths of the library. Stacks of books interrupt the aisles everywhere and he dodges them with ease; he knows this place by heart. At times the darkness and obstacles make her stumble, but he doesn't look back, even when she cries out in surprise as she catches her foot on massively thick tome that jerks into her path of its own accord.

She clutches the book he's given her to her chest as if ready to hide behind it in case they are caught. She is certain by now that no one but Snape has ever been back here, not for a very long time at least. She feels like an intruder, a trespasser, a Hogwarts student creeping through the Restricted Section at night beneath Harry's cloak.

"Am I... allowed?" she asks, finally.

"To speak? Or to enter this part of the library?" he says.

"To be here."

"The vampires will be hunting for hours. You'll be long gone by the time they return."

"That wasn't an answer to my question."

"I never said it was."

They walk forever, the light diminishing with each step, and by the time they reach the appropriate hall, his dark robes and hair have dissolved into their surroundings completely. If not for the low glow of a fireplace when he opens the door, she might not know to stop at all.

"My private quarters," he says, and motions for her to enter.

"You live here," she says. "Right in the library."

"It would appear that way."

She walks into the room, unsurprised by the sparse furnishings, or the shelves of books and occasional potions ingredients lining the walls.

"Sit," he says as he approaches a low cabinet.

She lowers herself into a threadbare armchair beside the fire, watches as he opens the cabinet door. Swirls of frosty air escape the refrigeration charm, and he reaches inside for something. He resurfaces with two bottles of ale.

Hermione cocks her head.

"I assumed you were thirsty," he says.

"I am. But... ale?"

"You were expecting something more sinister? I don't drink blood, Miss Granger."

"I know that. I just... I don't know what I was expecting. Something more tragic, I suppose. Like absinthe."

He raises that one condescending eyebrow, but his expression is thoroughly bemused. "Absinthe?"

"I don't know!" she says, feeling quite defensive now. "I generally stick to butterbeer or an occasional glass of mead."

"Does Molly Weasley still make her own?"

"Yes, but not so often."

"Horrible stuff."

"It is _not_."

"Says the butterbeer aficionado." He snorts and hands her the bottle. "Absinthe indeed."

She wants to cover her face with her hand and shrink away from the embarrassment, but instead she sips the ale.

"Is this going to be the extent of our conversation?" she says.

"I should hope not," he said. "Or I'll regret requesting your presence."

"Are you going to tell me how it happened?"

"How what happened?" He sinks into the chair nearest hers.

"How you came to live here."

"I died."

"Yes," she says, feeling ever more impatient with his evasiveness. "We've covered that. _Then_ what?"

"The vampires saved my life. They brought me here."

"What were vampires doing there in the first place?"

"Werewolves are not the only dark creatures to haunt the Shrieking Shack, Miss Granger. Regardless of what Black and Lupin believed."

"Did you know them?"

"In passing," he says. He pauses for a long draught of ale, then conjures a small table and sets the bottle between them.

"Why did they help you?"

"They had been long convinced that I could be of use to them," he says. "They saw an opportunity, and they took it. They brought me here. I have not left since."

She moistens her lips, framing the next question in her mind.

"Were they at the Shrieking Shack that night because they were fighting for Voldemort?"

Snape's lips quirk in amusement. "You have spent precious little time in the company of vampires," he says. "They are opportunists. They were biding their time, waiting to see what would happen. I'm sure you've read enough about them to know that with the amount of blood I spilled that night, they _flocked_ to the proverbial scene of the crime."

She shudders, quite involuntarily, as her imagination runs wild in the most gruesome ways. "How did you survive that?"

"The... leader of the group recognized me. Instead of allowing them to feed, he commanded them to return the blood to my body."

"Return the--that's impossible."

He leans forward now, stretches one long arm across the table, turning it over, palm up, in front of her. With his other hand, he tugs at his sleeve, exposing his bare wrist.

"I have a pulse, Miss Granger. You can feel it for yourself. Ergo, there is blood in my veins."

She sets her bottle aside and wipes the remains of condensation on her lap before raising two fingers to his wrist. His skin is much paler than hers, the sallow tone she remembers from Hogwarts faded into something milkier, as if he's seen the sun even less frequently than before. Indeed there is a beating pulse beneath his skin. She has known that since their first meeting in the alley behind the library, but somehow the urge to touch, to feel once again for herself, over comes that bit of logic.

"How do vampires return your blood?" she asks.

"That I cannot answer. I was in no shape to take notes."

"And there's not a book about it? Not in this entire library?"

"Vampires guard their secrets fiercely," he says. "Their oral history is well concealed from the outside world."

"Then why this place?" she says. "Why are vampires so protective of all this written knowledge if they're not guarding their own secrets here?"

"I believe I've already answered that."

She thinks for a moment. "They're opportunists," she says. "They want to know everything there is to know so they always have the advantage."

Snape exhales and makes the sound of a man who has been waiting for something for a very long time. "Do you know who the last visitor from Hogwarts was, Miss Granger?"

She shakes her head. Her fingers are still pressed to his wrist, but he hasn't asked her to move them. His skin is much cooler than hers, and remains that way, even as her fingertips go warm and damp in her nervousness.

"Gregory Goyle," he says.

"Oh." She wouldn't have expected that. "Why?"

"For reasons that are none of your business," he says, and his tone reminds her that she is not on amicable terms with this man, in spite of the somewhat amicable facade.

"I apologize," she says, and she withdraws her hand from his wrist. He flinches, just barely, but enough to let her know that her retreat has had its desired effect. He was craving the contact. "I take it he wasn't good company?"

He pulls his hand away with deliberation, tugs his sleeve back down over his wrist and smooths it.

"I am, as they say, starved for conversation." This sounds like a confession, a bearing of his bewildering soul. Again, it's unexpected, as if he wants to keep her from adopting any kind of certainty about him. "And you," he continues, "are in need of information. I would like to present you with a proposition, Miss Granger."

Hermione closes her hand around the bottle of ale, tightening her fingers to disguise the tremor of apprehension that shakes them.

"Oh?" she says, and she crosses her legs at the knees. "I'm listening."

"I find the case of Jordan's child... fascinating. If my instincts are correct, you'll need a potions master at some point."

"I've never been intimidated by difficult potions," she says, her chin rising primly.

"So I'm aware," he says. "If you don't want my assistance--"

"I didn't say that." Her defense is quick. "If you're offering assistance, I would do well to take it, I know that. But at what cost?"

"You have," he waves the bottle of ale in the air absently, "little reason to trust me. I realize this. I also realize that my request may seem... trite, in the face of what I am offering to provide. However, I give you my word that it is most sincere. All I ask in return is for conversation. Regular meetings at a predetermined time."

Hermione runs her tongue over her upper lip and watches his gaze drop to his lap. "I'm sure I can arrange for that," she says.

"The caveat, Miss Granger, is that you mustn't miss a single appointment."

"And if I do?"

"Our deal is off, and I will expect the book to be returned within twenty-four hours."

Now she, too, lowers her eyes, looks at the book that has not left her lap since she sat down. There is something more going on here. This is the man who managed to deceive Voldemort for so many years. She is not convinced his undisclosed motive is sinister, but it is likely to be self-serving.

Still, she does not minimize her own cleverness. Voldemort was not defeated by Severus Snape alone.

"All right," she says. "I agree."

Though his facial expression does not change, he looks pleased. She doesn't know whether to find that portentous or promising.

~*~*~

"Late night?"

Lee is leaning against the banister of the grand staircase as Hermione enters the foyer of Brown Manor.

It must be after four in the morning. "Yes," she says, and she starts for the stairs. She has so much to process, still, that her mind just doesn't seem to have room for Lee and Lavender's troubles, as selfish as that seems.

"You know," says Lee, when Hermione is on the third step, "Lavender thinks this is all her fault."

She stops moving and reaches with one hand for the banister. "That's ridiculous. You've told her that, haven't you?"

"Every damn day," says Lee. "It doesn't help. She thinks that if she'd paid better attention in the D.A., if she'd used a stronger spell against Greyback before he attacked her, if she'd run away and hidden instead of staying to fight..."

"Lee, nothing can change what's already been done. It's Greyback's fault, not Lavender's."

" _I_ know that. She doesn't. It's why I talked her into calling you for help. If he dies, she'll never forgive herself." Lee's gaze drops to the book she clutches at her chest. "Is that why you were out tonight?"

She nods. "It was difficult to procure."

"You think it will help? That it could save him?"

"It might. I think that, right now, it's the best chance we have."

Lee opens his mouth, but before he can speak, the sound of whimpering filters down the staircase.

"I should take care of that, before he wakes Lav," he says.

"Of course," says Hermione. "Go to your son. I think I'll... do some reading before bed."

Lee smiles, as if her intention alone has given him a bit of hope. "The sun'll be up in an hour."

"I know." There was a reason Snape had finally rushed her from the library, after all. The vampires must be returning by now. "Then I'll do some reading before breakfast instead."

"Thank you, Hermione. For all your help."

"You're very welcome, Lee," she says, and she watches him take the stairs two at a time until he reaches the top. What she doesn't say is that she's not dealing with this all alone, not anymore. Perhaps she'll be able to figure out the mystery of Severus Snape through the course of it all.


End file.
